[ he doesn't know who he wants to kill more: zoro or arlong.
zoro, probably.
his jacket was shed a while back, peeled off by arlong's greedy hands while he occupied his lap, and he feels the now-warm metal of the pole through his lace shirt with every twist, careful to keep it at his back. gratitude might have filled him at the allowance to remove his shirt, if he was capable of feeling such a thing after seeing zoro in the room. as it is, all he feels is a simmering rage mingled with a numb sort of fear. he wasn't scared before, just annoyed that the end of this was too far for him to look forward to, but now his instincts kick wildly like an animal in a trap. something doesn't feel right.
he makes a show of untucking his shirt and flicking each button open from collar to hem. soft fabric slips down his shoulders, revealing his lean, muscled body — and his reddened nipples, silver glinting from each one, freshly pierced. so fresh it's been just an hour since arlong brought someone in to get it done for him, sanji stretched out on a lavish bed with some flunky's hand in his trousers while the needle went through. after seeing zoro, though, he doesn't know how he's supposed to get hard again.
jesus fuck. zoro. he's probably got it all figured out now, everything sanji has worked so hard to hide from him. that arlong is the guy that sanji lets put bruises all over him. arlong is the one sanji doesn't fight back. arlong is the one paying all his bills, and sanji doesn't mind rolling over and spending a week in pain if it means eating up all his money. because this isn't worse than what he's already been through. arlong doesn't break his bones. he can still walk after. arlong doesn't lock him in a cage or starve him or make him wish he was dead. arlong just wants to use him for a night or two, and sanji doesn't have a problem being used.
zoro could never understand that. zoro would want arlong's head. fuck. zoro will want arlong's head.
fuck.
sanji looks up with an unchanged expression, his face wiped blank to his usual — bored, dissolute. arlong says something, and sanji pretends not to have a viscerally negative reaction to the order. no, he doesn't think the new muscle is hot. no, he doesn't want to go grind his ass on his cock. and no, he doesn't want to serve him a fucking drink.
sanji lights a cigarette before he picks up the glass that's magically appeared, an expensive scotch with a globe of ice in it, stepping evenly across the table to crouch before zoro's seat. he takes a sip of the drink before dangling it before zoro's nose, his cigarette balanced between two fingers of the same hand. ]
Here.
[ then he slides in his lap, just like arlong wanted. he cards his fingers up the back of zoro's hair, painfully intimate, bringing his mouth close to his ear where arlong can't see. ]
cradles this in my hands
zoro, probably.
his jacket was shed a while back, peeled off by arlong's greedy hands while he occupied his lap, and he feels the now-warm metal of the pole through his lace shirt with every twist, careful to keep it at his back. gratitude might have filled him at the allowance to remove his shirt, if he was capable of feeling such a thing after seeing zoro in the room. as it is, all he feels is a simmering rage mingled with a numb sort of fear. he wasn't scared before, just annoyed that the end of this was too far for him to look forward to, but now his instincts kick wildly like an animal in a trap. something doesn't feel right.
he makes a show of untucking his shirt and flicking each button open from collar to hem. soft fabric slips down his shoulders, revealing his lean, muscled body — and his reddened nipples, silver glinting from each one, freshly pierced. so fresh it's been just an hour since arlong brought someone in to get it done for him, sanji stretched out on a lavish bed with some flunky's hand in his trousers while the needle went through. after seeing zoro, though, he doesn't know how he's supposed to get hard again.
jesus fuck. zoro. he's probably got it all figured out now, everything sanji has worked so hard to hide from him. that arlong is the guy that sanji lets put bruises all over him. arlong is the one sanji doesn't fight back. arlong is the one paying all his bills, and sanji doesn't mind rolling over and spending a week in pain if it means eating up all his money. because this isn't worse than what he's already been through. arlong doesn't break his bones. he can still walk after. arlong doesn't lock him in a cage or starve him or make him wish he was dead. arlong just wants to use him for a night or two, and sanji doesn't have a problem being used.
zoro could never understand that. zoro would want arlong's head. fuck. zoro will want arlong's head.
fuck.
sanji looks up with an unchanged expression, his face wiped blank to his usual — bored, dissolute. arlong says something, and sanji pretends not to have a viscerally negative reaction to the order. no, he doesn't think the new muscle is hot. no, he doesn't want to go grind his ass on his cock. and no, he doesn't want to serve him a fucking drink.
sanji lights a cigarette before he picks up the glass that's magically appeared, an expensive scotch with a globe of ice in it, stepping evenly across the table to crouch before zoro's seat. he takes a sip of the drink before dangling it before zoro's nose, his cigarette balanced between two fingers of the same hand. ]
Here.
[ then he slides in his lap, just like arlong wanted. he cards his fingers up the back of zoro's hair, painfully intimate, bringing his mouth close to his ear where arlong can't see. ]
I won't fucking forgive you for this.